What I Thought Was True(32)

That makes me think of Spence’s dickish “team tradition”

comment. “Did Nic tell you—”

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“Nic always tells me to just blow him off,” Viv says. “And he’s right. So my stepfather is the poster child for Type A.

Doesn’t mean I have to be the same. Even if I am taking over the biz when Al and Mom retire.”

“Yeah, about that,” I say. “You’re not an indentured servant in medieval times. You don’t have to be the heir to the throne at Almeida’s.” Dipping my finger into the bucket again, I write my name in cursive. Emory watches me, then writes curves and loops himself, but they don’t spell anything.

Viv shakes her head, her brow smoothing out again. “Aah, Gwenners, you know me. Not a brainiac like you. I couldn’t care less about college. Seems like a waste of time, consid-ering the grades I get. It’s good to know where I’m going to be instead of flailing around looking for my place in the world. I’m lucky.” She sounds so cheerful at the prospect of spending the rest of her life putting together Dockside Delight picnic baskets and clam boils. That’s the thing about Viv—whenever Nic and I tip into glass half-empty, she can nudge us back to half-full—and the waiter will be along any minute to fill it to the brim. “Plus, I rock at management.

Look at me with Nic.”

“Yeah, you’ve totally whipped that guy into shape. At least ten percent of the time he’s on time. Sometimes even wearing a clean shirt.”

“I like him without the shirt,” Viv says.

“Keep your twisted perversions to yourself.”

She laughs, sits up, and pulls the cooler closer, flipping open the lid. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t share that one, babe.

I’ve watched you at meets, and whatever else you might say 109

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about Cassidy Somers, you can’t deny his assets there. That? The boy does well.”

I flush. Viv’s instantly contrite. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about him. Think about him. Or whatever.”

“Just because you and my cousin have mated for life doesn’t mean I have to,” I say.

Viv raises her eyebrows. “I was just talking about noticing when someone was cute. You’re the one going straight from shirtlessness to mating. Interesting.”

“Stop it. Don’t go making me and Cass into you and Nic.

Clearly, that’s not what’s going on here.”

“And that would be . . . ?” she asks, burrowing into the cooler, then making a face. “Goat cheese? Not in the mood. Is there a mood for goat cheese?”

I take the cooler from her, rustle around to find the foil-wrapped brownies, pass them to her. She puts her hand on her heart, mock sighing with relief.

“Maybe I’m just not the kind of girl who—”

Viv shakes her head at me. “Shit. Stop. I hate it when you do that. It’s not like you’re Spencer Channing with his five girls in the hot tub at once.”

“Is that story even true? Because when you think about it, it sounds like a ton of work. You’d have to feed them and talk to them and find a way to entertain the girls who’re waiting while you’re busy with one or two—”

“Right—so they don’t leave or . . . or molest the pool boy out of sheer boredom,” Vivie continues, smiling.

“Yeah, you’re getting tired . . .” I add.

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“It’s more work than you expected,” she sighs, brushing chocolate off her fingers.

“Makes a great rumor . . .” I say. “Not much fun in action.”

She looks down at her hands, her face going serious. “Speak-ing of action . . . Gwen . . . do you think Nic really wants the Coast Guard? Or it’s just . . . an escape fantasy? Like touring around the state painting houses this summer, when he’s really better off working steady right here. Have you seen the things those Coasties do? They’re freaking Navy Seals. If he gets into the academy, that’ll be Nicky . . . all that stuff with helicopters and tow ropes. Why not just take a sensible job, like at Almeida’s?”

I try to imagine Nic going into the flower-arranging and food service business, for real. It’s so much easier to picture him dangling fifty feet above the churning ocean during a hurricane.

I’m distracted by something far out to sea. Moving. Bobbing.

A seal?

We don’t see them often around here. The water’s too choppy—cold and unpredictable even at the height of summer, and there aren’t enough rocks. Straightening up and squinting harder, I follow the motion. Whatever it is disappears under the water with a flick of surf. A cormorant? No, no long neck.

I nudge Vivien, who has rested her cheek on her knees and closed her eyes. “What’s that?”

“Oh God, not a shark!”

Three summers ago, a great white was seen off the coast of Seashell and Vivie, traumatized by Shark Week on Discovery Channel when she was little, has lived in terror of becoming the star of the next episode of Mauled! ever since.

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Whatever it is bobs back up again.

“No fin,” I report. “Besides, it’s moving up and down, not gliding menacingly forward, ready to leap onto the dock and have you for dinner.”